


Spring Cleaning

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: story-works, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Spring Cleaning, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-30 00:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19031407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Watson and Holmes do some spring cleaning of the Sussex cottage.ACD. Holmes/Watson. Domestic fluff for the DW Story Works comm challenge: spring cleaning.





	1. Chapter 1

“I fail to see the point of what you’re doing, Watson. Mrs. Thoroughgoode returns on Monday.”

“I can’t have her see this, Holmes!”

“She’s our housekeeper! Keeping our house is, in fact, her purview.”

“Of course, it is. But I can’t allow her return to all of this. Not after being ill with pneumonia and convalescing for two months. It will be too much work for her, and  quite frankly, I’m rather embarrassed that we’ve let our quarters slide into such slovenly disarray.”

“It _was_ winter.”

“And now it’s spring. We were a pair of Bohemian bachelors cooped up and left to own devices for many weeks. It’s understandable that such circumstances generated considerable mess, but it’s time to sweep away the cobwebs and air out the cupboards.”

Holmes chuckled. “Mrs. Hudson would be so proud. But you had best be careful. A hearty campaign to set the whole cottage to rights might well put you in Mrs. Thoroughgoode’s former condition.”

“That’s why I’ve given myself almost a week.”

“Excellent.”

“And that’s why you’re going to help.”

“Oh, Watson.”

“You’re responsible for at least half of this.”

“But Watson…”

“And I’m going to start with these papers.”

“Now, see here…”

* * *

“Are you still sulking?”

Holmes harrumphed.

“You have three trunks to store your books and important papers. I have only two.”

“Three trunks! Can you reduce the work of a lifetime to—?”

“Three trunks in addition to the five already in storage, all of these shelves,” Watson gestured to the wall behind him, “and half a lumber room in your brother’s London residence, which was filled before we left.”

“Even so!” protested Holmes.

Ignoring Holmes’s theatrics, Watson looked about the floor. “I’ve only one corner left to tidy,” he observed. “How tremendous to see the floor again! When I’m done, I’ll make us a well-deserved cup of tea. Let’s see here. This trunk is full. So, _that_ one.”

“That’s mine,” said Holmes.

“It’s not! Those are yours.”

“Those are full.”

“Holmes! I am not surrendering my trunk.”

“It’s not yours!”

“It is!”

“Oh, very well.”

“Really, Holmes,” remarked Watson. He sat perched on the edge of the chair as he opened the trunk. When he looked inside, he exclaimed,

“You’ve already put some papers in this one, Holmes!”

“I thought it was mine,” said Holmes unrepentantly.

“I think you should put these,” Watson scooped up the papers, “in your…”

His voice trailed off.

“Holmes?”

“Mm?”

“Is this…?” Watson’s voice faltered again as he held up a single sheet of hand-noted musical composition and turned it towards Holmes. “It’s entitled _John’s Song_ and dated 1881. Did you write me a song?”

“Yes.”

Watson’s eyes bulged. “And in all these years you’ve never told me?” He turned his gaze to the score and said, puzzled, “The very first year we met?”

“You’ve known about it from the beginning.”

“No!”

Holmes huffed. With fluid grace, he got to his feet, snatched the paper from Watson’s hand, propped it on the mantelpiece, and went for his violin.

Soon he was waltzing about the almost-tidied sitting room, pausing only to cast a Cheshire-cat grin in Watson’s direction.

Watson’s expression became a mask of befuddlement.

“But that’s the…”

Holmes halted and lowered his instrument. “The song I used to play when you were plagued with nightmares and insomnia.”

“But you said it was Mendelsohn! I told the world it was Mendelsohn!”

“You told the world a lot of things, my dear Watson. I wonder if the more astute of your readers believed even half of them.”

“Never mind that. It’s beautiful, Holmes.”

“It ought to be. It’s yours.”

Holmes set the violin in a chair and opened his arms.

Watson rose, and without a word, the two began to dance about the room, Holmes leading, Watson following, both humming the tune.

“Why did you never tell me, Holmes?” whispered Watson when the song had ended and he was in Holmes’s warm embrace.

“Because I knew, or rather I hoped, that one day I’d been able to surprise you with something quite wonderful.”

“You _are_ something quite wonderful, Holmes.”

Their lips met.

Watson pulled away. “I believe I’m quite done cleaning for the day…”

“Hurrah!” cried Holmes.

“…and you can have all the trunks you want, you marvelous creature.”

They kissed again.

“I believe that wise decision merits an encore,” said Holmes. He stepped back, lifted his arms, and began to hum the song anew as he swept Watson away for another turn about the sitting room.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson raised himself to his full height, retrieved the rag which had been tucked in top of his trousers, and mopped his brow.

“Cleaning a kitchen is a dreadful business, Holmes.”

A distracted hum emanated from the dining room.

Watson twisted toward the door, which was propped open.

“Aren’t you done sorting through all that? You’re suppose to be onto the polishing!”

Atop the dining room table and before a seated Holmes was a large assembly of books, papers, dishes, implements, and devices, all of which had been removed from the kitchen prior to Watson’s assault upon it.

Holmes smiled, but not at Watson.

“What’s got you so amused?”

“A cookery book.”

“Oh, yes?” Watson approached. “That was Mrs. Hudson’s, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, have you ever read it?”  

“I can’t say that I have.”

“It’s annotated.”

“Is it?” Watson leaned over his shoulder and read, “A place for everything and everything in its place… _unless Mister Holmes has stolen it for one of his infernal investigations_.”

Watson chuckled, but he stopped chuckling after Holmes had flipped a few pages.

“I say, Holmes, is that…?”

“A handwritten recipe for ‘Stock of Doctor Watson’ in the margin. Mrs. Hudson went to great length to describe how she would go about making you into soup, my dear man! But what could have been behind such vehemence? Ah, ‘… _if he ruins another of my cushions with his accursed tobacco ash_.’”

“Oh,” said Watson sheepishly. “From time to time, I was somewhat careless with that.”

Holmes continued to turn pages. “It’s a fascinating read, Watson. Make us a cup of tea and have a seat.”

Watson raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the kitchen and the pile on the table, then shrugged.

“Very well.”

* * *

“Ah, so that was the secret of her famous curry fowl, look, Watson…”

“Is the lemon pudding in there? That was my favourite.”

* * *

“’To cure a ham at home… _is a lot easier than to cure a gentleman-detective of using the sitting room as his own personal shooting gallery, no matter how patriotic his calligraphy_!’” read Watson.

“Very true,” mused Holmes. “I should be thankful I was never sent off to the butcher’s shop and made into chops.”

“Oh, but here it is. ‘How to properly truss a sleuth’ and a date. Let’s see, oh, that might be the time you borrowed her umbrella and her corset for a disguise. Goodness, was she ever cross about that!”

“I made full restitution after the case, of course, but it was an unfortunate shock when she spotted me strolling about Regent’s Park in her best hat, too.”

* * *

“The duck, oh, the duck, Holmes, do you remember…?”

“Oh, and here is my beloved woodcock. Watson…”

Holmes reached out a hand. Watson caught his fingers and squeezed affectionately.

“Come here, my dear man,” whispered Holmes. He pushed back from the table where the book lay open.

Watson went to him at once, perching on Holmes’s leg as they turned the pages together and read the notes.

“It’s not all sauces and soufflés, look at that.” Holmes pointed.

“Oh, dear, in addition to,” Watson coughed, “colourful prose, she has offered illustration as well.”

“Decidedly unflattering caricatures of us both roasting on spits. I wonder…”

Watson hummed with furrowed brow. “Spring of ’95?”

“Yes, when she sent us into exile for three months for damaging the curtains, the upholstery, and…”

They spoke as one.

“…the cushions.”

“Oh, she added own recipes for removing ‘villainously-acquired stains’ from rugs and other fabrics.”

“And an entire chapter on mud.” Holmes bit playfully at Watson’s shoulder.

“Guilty as charged,” replied Watson with a smirk. As the pages turned, he sighed, “Oh, Holmes…”

“She was a queen.”

“And a saint.”

“I miss her.”

“So do I.”

They fell into poignant silence, then Watson exclaimed,

“I say, Holmes, let’s have a dinner! Pick a couple of favourites from this,” he patted the book, “go into town, get whatever we lack, come back and cook it up. All in her memory.”

“A capital plan, Watson. I trust you have done an inventory of the larder.”

“Yes, but that…” Watson frowned at the unsorted heap.

“Well, as to that, I think we should follow the sage advice of our elder.”

“Which is?”

Holmes turned to the final page and read the handwritten note.

_Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. When all else fails, cover it all with a clean tablecloth and retire to bed with a generous glass of gin, and say, ‘TOMORROW!'_


	3. Chapter 3

Watson’s voice and his footsteps grew louder until they stopped abruptly.

“Things are coming along quite nicely, Holmes. I think we’ve only the larger bedroom left. Holmes!”

“Yes?”

“You’ve cleaned!”

Holmes harrumphed. “Your astonishment wounds me, Watson. Didn’t you ask me to tidy this bedroom?”

“Yes, but I didn’t think that you’d do it! You’ve been so quiet that I assumed you’d gotten distracted by something.” He put his hands on his hips, looked about the room, and sighed. “I don’t like the charade of two bedrooms, but I also don’t want to lose Mrs. Thoroughgoode just when we’ve got her back.”

“Indeed, but there is always Sunday, her, and our, day of rest.”

Holmes shot Watson a look, and Watson leaned in for a long kiss.

When Watson pulled away, he said,

“You really have done a splendid job, Holmes. Here let me help you take this last box out.”

“No! I’ll get it!”

“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s the least I can do!”

“Watson!”

The box spilled, and something in the bundle that hit the floor _jingled_.

“Holmes! What is this?” Watson rummaged through the heap, then produced the strap with the dangling noisemakers.

“Nothing.”

“It looks like a bell pad.”

“It isn’t.”

“A bell pad for Morris dancing!”

“Give me it!” Holmes lunged, but Watson was too quick. He ran down the hall towards the sitting room, laughing, jingling and calling,

“That’s your secret: you’re a Morris dancer!”

“It’s not a secret anymore!” growled Holmes as he followed behind Watson.

Watson stopped and turned to face Holmes. “Do you have a costume, too?”

Holmes nearly ran into Watson. He stood still and silent, his eyes averted, lips twitching.

“Is it in another box?” prompted Watson with an impish grin.

Holmes relaxed with a groan. He rolled his eyes and admitted, “Perhaps.”

“Is that why you didn’t want me to clean that room? And why you cleaned it so well? Tut, tut, my dear Holmes. Your secret is out!”

“Apparently.”

“How did it start?”

“With a case, of course, in the Cotswolds.”

“I don’t remember a case involving Morris dancing.”

“You were otherwise occupied.”

“Ah. And you found you liked it?”

“Yes, in the beginning I was just participating to discover who had murdered the vicar, but I found I quite liked the group as well as the dancing and returned to the village to take part in celebrations and festivities from time to time.”

“And you never told me!”  

“It is a rather unusual hobby, and I did not want to open myself up to ridicule, yours or your readership’s.”

“I think it’s marvelous!”

“You do?”

“Of course, I do!”

“With this spring purge of yours, I’d thought to send the costume to the current leader of the group so that someone else might make use of it. I shan’t wear it again.”

“And why shan’t you?”

“Well, I’m not exactly a leaping stag these days.”

“Nonsense. You’re as spry as ever, and I demand a solo gig in full regalia!”

Holmes chuckled. “Don’t you have something to clean?”

“No,” said Watson stubbornly. “I shall be pipe and tabor and provide whatever musical accompaniment you require, and when you’ve finished, I think you should write your group’s leader at once and say that you will be at the next performance and I will be in the audience.”

“Watson!”

“I’m in earnest, Holmes.”

“I know. It’s just your limits. I never have and never shall get them.”

“Good,” said Watson. He gripped Holmes by the shirt and kissed him hard. “Now, go get your bells on and dazzle me.”


	4. Chapter 4

“What has you so worried, Watson?” asked Holmes as he poured tea for two. “Surely not Mrs. Thoroughgoode’s return tomorrow or the state of the cottage. As to the latter, it’s in immaculate order.”

“Immaculate?” echoed Watson distractedly. “Hardly.”

“Well, it is no exaggeration to say it is far cleaner and more ordered than it has ever been, and that includes the first day we arrived. Are you hurting? I was afraid you had done yourself to death with ‘the larger’ bedroom.”

“I’m fine, Holmes,” said Watson. “And there’s nothing wrong with working up a bit of sweat.”

“I can’t agree more, especially when it’s you who are doing the sweating,” said Holmes with a quick smirk. “But, really, Watson, I was beginning to suspect you were expiating some kind of sin with the vigour you put into the scrubbing and scouring.”

Watson huffed and sipped his tea and said nothing.

Holmes mirrored Watson’s movements purposefully, then finally asked in a tone that was thick with genuine concern,

“What is it, my dear man?”

Their eyes met.

“I’ve misplaced something,” said Watson, keeping his eyes fixed on his tea.

“Well,” replied Holmes with mock solemnity, “it just so happens that I know a man who’s quite good at finding things. In fact, I think he used to do it for a living. Let me see, what was his name? Something odd…”

Watson’s lips curled into a smile, but the uncertainty in his eyes remained.

“When did you last see the item?” asked Holmes casually.

“That’s just it!” cried Watson. “I remember unpacking them, but I’ve not had occasion to think of them since, except to move them, of course.”

“So, it’s been quite a while.”

“Yes.”

“And where did you last see them?”

“That’s the worst part,” said Watson with a frustrated groan. “Remember when we first arrived I was going to take the larger of the bedrooms—?”

“Watson, I’ve said a hundred times if you really want the morning light all you need to do is say the word—”

“Confound you! This is difficult to confess. Will you let me finish?”

“Sorry,” said Holmes contritely. “Pray continue, please.”

“Well, I am quite certain that I hid them inside the wooden panel at the head of the bed, but then I remembered thinking that wasn’t so secure a hiding place after all, so I moved them to behind the Alma-Tadema, but then I remember thinking that beneath the false bottom of the drawer of the bedside table in the smaller bedroom might be a much better place, but I can’t remember if I just thought that or I actually moved them. But they aren’t in any of those places now!” His face was drawn. “And I can’t find them! And I can’t for the life of me think where they might be!”

“Watson, that was very foolish of you.”

“I know!” Watson threw his eyes heavenward. “And now there’s a sinking dread in my chest, growing by the breath, that perhaps Mrs. Thoroughgoode found them…”

“No, I mean all of those hiding places were wholly unsuitable. Our good housekeeper could have stumbled upon them at any moment. Come.”

Holmes rose and waltzed gallantly to the sitting room.

Watson followed behind him. “Holmes, do you mean to say…?”

Holmes went to the bookcase and selected a large, dusty volume entitled _Early Christian Sermons_. He opened it to reveal a hollowed-out interior and produced from the cavity a set of postcards.

“Rest easy, Watson. They’ve been here, the last place anyone would look, since last September.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Watson sank to the sofa. Then he looked up at Holmes who, with the postcards still in hand, was returning the book to its place on the shelf. “Do you mean to say you’ve known all along about them, Holmes?”

“Yes, Watson, I’ve known about your collection of naughty Parisian postcards for many, many years.” He sat beside Watson on the sofa. “I used to pay special attention to the ones that were the most well-thumbed.”

Watson chuckled as Holmes slowly shuffled through the cards.

“This one?” prompted Holmes.

Watson hummed and nodded. “And…”

“This one?”

“Yes.” Watson turned his head and pressed his lips to Holmes’s neck. His voice fell to a soft, seductive, rumble, “Mister Holmes…”

“Doctor Watson, shall we retire early and celebrate our successful spring cleaning by discussing the artistic merits of each of these tableaus?”

“With demonstration, where possible and desired by both parties? Absolutely!”

* * *

“Is that you, Auntie?” called a voice from the kitchen.

“It’s me, Alice,” said Mrs. Thoroughgoode.

“You’re back early.”

“You won’t believe this, my child, but there weren’t a lot for me to do today.”

“I don’t believe it at all! Those gentlemen have been on their own for months. That cottage must’ve been a fright.”

“Neat as a pin, I found it!”

“No!”

“Couldn't believe it myself, at first. Pour us a cuppa, love, and I’ll tell you about it. And here’s a cake that Doctor Watson swears he made with his two hands.”

Alice goggled at cloth-wrapped bundle her aunt laid on the table, then did as bid.

“Everything at the cottage was as neat and tidy as you please, and the gentlemen had already breakfasted—and washed up after themselves—when I got there.”

“Goodness!”

“All I had to do was make their luncheon and clean up and leave their tea, but if you ask me neither of them is going to eat until tomorrow.”

“Why’s that?”

“They looked well done-in, they did. Mister Holmes said they slept poorly, and I daresay, by the looks of ‘em, I don’t think they got a wink of sleep either of them, bless ‘em. The doctor kipped in his chair and Mister Holmes on the sofa nearly the whole time I was there!”

Alice hummed. “I swear, Auntie, nobody’s been doing for them since you stopped.”

“I asked them that question directly, my dear. You know I don’t mince words with the gentlemen. I asked ‘em how the cottage was in such a fine state with no one doing for them. And you know what Mister Holmes said?”

Alice shook her head.

“He said they’d been doing a bit of ‘spring cleaning.’”

“Oh, yes?”

“And I asked him under whose orders. And he pointed to an old book and said, ‘Mrs. Beeton herself.’”

“Mrs. Beeton!” cried Alice with a laugh. “Why I never!”

Mrs. Thoroughgoode chuckled. “Then he said, in that courtly way he has, ‘You know, Mrs. Thoroughgoode, you must first catch your hare…’”

Alice shook her head and poured more tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
